GINGER BURNET BOOKS 4-6 [EBOOK BUNDLE]

<h3>Chapter 1</h3><br>
It was mid-July in Little Chiswick, South Gloucestershire and Ginger Burnet was slowly melting.
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The sun was scorching the back of her head even through the thick curtain of her dark brown hair. On the exposed skin of her shoulders and thighs, she could feel the tell-tale tightness that told her that she hadn’t put on enough sunscreen. She ruefully reflected that she probably should have taken her boyfriend Rhys up on his offer to put the sunscreen on for her rather than unsuccessfully twisting herself into various shapes to cover the hard-to-reach spots. Which she’d apparently failed at anyway.
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Although balanced precariously at the top of a slightly rickety, wooden A-frame ladder, she took a moment to rest, looking away from the task at hand and out over the currently quiet High Street of Little Chiswick. The picturesque village nestled in the hills and valleys of the Cotswolds, demurely boasting adorable stone cottages, a plethora of high-quality local produce providers, and a strong arts scene.
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It really was the perfect place for a bakery like hers, Ginger thought with a satisfied smile.
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It had been a long, arduous road for her to be balanced on a ladder, painting the name of her bakery onto the building. It was difficult to believe that the year before she had still been working at the elite Chiswick Park Academy only a few miles from where she was now, teaching an art course on baking and dessert decoration. Even more difficult to believe now, looking back, was that she had thought she had found her calling.
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But as her thirtieth birthday approached, Ginger had experienced the kind of life shift that could only seem to happen to her. It had involved several murders, being told her course was being discontinued, not one but two serial killers, her relationship with Rhys nearly collapsing, and in the midst of it all a chance encounter with the previous owner of this very bakery.
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The former owner had sold the building to a local developer and Ginger had been fortunate enough to convince the new owner of the building that her baking endeavours made her a more than worthy new tenant. So, for the whole of her thirtieth year, Ginger had put every scrap of money, time, and energy into overhauling the tired old bakery and turning it into what she hoped would be the latest jewel of Little Chiswick.
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And now, somehow, the grand launch of her bakery had arrived, and everything had to be perfect. Particularly the sign. It was the first thing that people were going to see of her establishment, after all.
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Turning back to look at the half-painted sign stretching across the lintel of her shop, she frowned when she noticed that she’d smudged some of the gold edging onto the white lettering.
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“I’ve been refurbishing and planning this grand opening for a year,” she muttered to herself, taking a fine tipped paint brush from behind her ear and dipping it into a pot of white paint balanced among others on the flat top of the ladder.
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The name had taken her some time to settle on. After all, it was the first thing people would see of the shop; it was what she would use to advertise on social media; it was a crucial representation of her brand. Did she want to come across as elegant and high class? Did she want to be cutesy and bubbly? Did she want a hipster, arty vibe to her shop?
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Eventually, after market research, doodling typographical designs, and staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night saying different names over and over until they became numb on her tongue, she’d found the perfect choice.
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The Gingerbread House.
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It had a touch of fairy tale about it, a feeling she’d encouraged by painting the window frames as if they were edged with candies and icing. It had her name in it, which was a nice touch, and Ginger liked how the name reminded her of the fancy buildings up at Chiswick Park Academy, like Melville House or the West Court Dormitory.
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The Gingerbread House was a perfect name.
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Below her, just out of sight, the front door of the bakery was opened from the inside, sending the bell she hung just that morning jingling merrily. Her assistant, Amelia, who was currently on summer break from her baking and confectionary degree, carefully poked her head out.
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“I think the ice cream machine has finished throwing its tantrum and has actually made the ice cream,” she said, hands hovering above the puffs of the space buns she’d pulled her dark brown afro into for that day. “Want to come and try it?”
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Ginger squinted down at her, aware that she probably had paint on her nose and that she was rather sunburnt.
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“Do I want to come in out of the scorching sun to eat freshly made ice cream?” she asked slowly. “I’m going to be honest, Amelia, but I think you might have just found the most pointless question there is.”
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Amelia grinned, chuckling as Ginger descended the ladder after putting the lids safely on the pots of paint.
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“I thought you might say that,” she said, pointing back into the beckoning cool of the bakery. “I’ve already got two scoops served up and a cold drink waiting for you.”
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“I think I love you,” Ginger said gratefully, hurrying inside, unable to stop her sigh of relief as she finally got out of the sun.
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Despite the cold drink and ice cream calling her name, Ginger couldn’t help but slow as she walked through the service space of her bakery. There were still minor changes and adjustments to make, but the surge of pride she felt looking around the room was unparalleled with anything else she had done so far in life.
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After much careful restoration, the walls had been stripped back to the original brick, leaving the different shades of dark red, orange, and almost black on display to fill the room with a homey aura. Ginger had deliberated with various trusted people in her life about what colours to use in the interior that would complement the warm tones of the brick. On the list had been her mother, Rhys, her art teacher friend Bonnie, and her Scottish baker friend Maggie who had asked the advice of the art department at the theatre she worked at.
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“I’m glad we went with this pale, milky green,” Ginger said absently, trailing her fingers across the painted wood of the display cabinets.
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“It came out looking wonderful,” Amelia agreed, using her sleeve to buff out a smudge on the stainless-steel serving counter. “Even if we did screw up our timings by painting it during that cold, rainy stretch back in May.”
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The two exchanged a knowing grimace and a laugh.
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“But I am glad we went for the beech wood for the shelves,” Amelia added, gesturing to the floating shelves cascading down one wall. “It really ties the brick and the cabinets together in the colour palette.”
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Ginger hummed in agreement, feeling a swell of satisfaction as she noted that the black, industrial style of the spotlight lamps on the ceiling was echoed in the black cast iron handles of the doors and drawers.
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“Did you remember to check in with Katrina from Blythe Spirit about when she’s delivering the jams and chutneys?” she asked, drifting toward the kitchen, her throat begging for a drink. “I know we had to delay because the display shelves were being difficult and took forever to put up, but I really want her products on the shelves for the opening tomorrow.”
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“I’ll give her a call while you cool down,” Amelia said, pulling her phone out of the front pocket of her apron. “Go eat your ice cream and hydrate yourself. Then we’ll find you some more sunscreen before you finish the sign.”
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“I have no quarrels with this plan,” Ginger said, still feeling the prickle of her sunburnt skin.
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The newly refurbished kitchen was, for once, cool and quiet except for the whir and hum of the ice cream machines. For the opening event, and taking into consideration the oppressive heat, Ginger had decided to create several delicious ice cream flavours to serve at the party. Initially, she’d used the ice cream machine she usually had buried at the back of her cookware cupboard, but she quickly realised she would need something a little more industrial now she was operating on a professional scale.
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So, Ginger had tracked down two ice cream machines as quickly as she could, eventually renting them from a local dairy that had run a shop for one summer before throwing in the towel. She also got a discount because she agreed to use their milk and cream for the recipes, a fact that had quickly earned her an enthusiastic ally.
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Now, Ginger found herself drooling just a little as she picked up the tasting pot of ice cream that Amelia had left out for her. This particular recipe was her favourite, and one she had been working on for some time: rosewater and honey, using fresh, thick Cotswold clotted cream.
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The first touch on her tongue made her shiver with delight, the fragrance of the rosewater mixing perfectly with the sweet, lavender-infused honey from a local beekeeper. The ice cream itself was silky smooth, rich in taste, and not too sweet. It was perfect.
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The spoon still in her mouth, Ginger allowed herself a triumphant fist pump and a quick twirl on one foot in celebration. As she consumed a second spoonful, however, there came a gentle knock at the bakery’s back door.